She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,199

arm dialed up to eleven, and consciousness fell away.

27

Six minutes.

That’s how much time passed from the moment the white Ford Expeditions arrived at 803 Windmore Road, until Latrese Oliver and David Pickford climbed into the back seat of the middle vehicle, the cleanup complete.

The crew worked with practiced speed. The bodies of the dead were placed inside the two disabled vehicles and set ablaze with handheld TPA canister grenades. David had no idea where Charter obtained such toys, but he sure enjoyed instructing his subordinates to use them. He had been told they contained thickened triethylaluminium, a napalm-like substance that ignites when exposed to air. They made very little noise, just a simple pop!, followed by a puff of blue smoke, then a rush of flames that quickly engulfed the interiors before lapping out through the opened windows and over the roof, hood, and sides.

The interior of the house was photographed and videoed in under two minutes. The pictures and footage would be examined later by a team of specialists. If there was something worthwhile to find, they would find it. At the end of those two minutes, TPAs were placed in the house and ignited.

Burning the dead was nothing more than a precaution. Charter employees were not permitted to carry identification, nor did they appear in any government database. Criminal records, social security, birth, DMV—all were purged upon employment.

A single neighbor emerged once the gunfire stopped, running from the house two doors down at 807 Windmore when he saw David standing in the street, directing the team. The man was in his mid-fifties, with thin hair combed back over a rather small head. He wore a white tank-top undershirt, jeans, and no shoes. He held a .22 in his hand. By the look of the rust on the barrel, the weapon hadn’t been fired or cleaned in a long time. He ran at David, shouting that he called the cops, they were on their way.

“When did you call them?” David asked.

“Five minutes ago! You okay? You hit?”

“I’m not even here,” David replied. “How could I get hit?”

The man appeared puzzled for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose not. That would be tough, wouldn’t it?”

“What did you see?”

The man told him, and he had seen plenty. He told David how it all started shortly after that Ford Bronco down the street showed up. He told him about the man who got out—some homeless-looking mountain man. Walked right into Faye’s place like he owned it.

“Did Faye Mauck have a kid?”

“I never saw one, but she kept to herself, mostly.”

They had learned Faye Mauck was the latest in a long string of identities used by Cammie Brotherton in the two decades she’d been running. Most likely, that’s the name that would appear on her tombstone, if her body ended up in a marked grave. David followed the man’s gaze to the gray Ford parked a half block before 803, partially on the street, partially on the sidewalk.

Hobson.

Following instructions, like a good little soldier.

David nodded at one of the crew and pointed at the Bronco. “Take whatever’s inside, then wash it like the others.” The man understood, moving quickly.

He returned his focus back on the nosy neighbor in the tank top. “You started all these fires, right?”

“I started the fires?”

“Yep. The cars, the house. All you. You like fire. You started them all. Killed these people, too.”

“Okay. I guess I did.”

“When the police arrive, you’re going to tell them what you did, how much you enjoyed it. Then, as soon as you finish, after they write it all down, you know what you’re going to do next?”

The man’s face was blank.

“You’re going to walk right into that burning house and sit down in the living room. Get right up in the thick of it and pop a squat,” David told him. “You like fire.”

“Okay. I like fire.”

“Before that, though, when I leave,” David went on, “I want you to shoot that little gun of yours—shoot the bodies in the SUV, get every shot off, then toss the gun in the bushes over there. Not too deep, though. We don’t want to make this hard on the locals.”

“That wouldn’t be nice.”

“No, sir, it wouldn’t.”

David saw a woman peeking out from behind the curtain of an upstairs room next door. He waved at her. It didn’t matter if she saw him. Nobody would believe her. He turned back to the man in the tank top. “One other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I’m a good-looking guy?”

The man